


Know When to Fold 'Em

by MorningBlueRose



Category: True Blood
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Power Kink, Terrible sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorningBlueRose/pseuds/MorningBlueRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve has never been first on anyone's list, including his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Know When to Fold 'Em

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't find any fic with this pairing, so I wrote my own. It's also 2:30 am, so make of that what you will.
> 
> I hope you like it.

 

 

For maybe the tenth time since the beginning of his new death/life, Steve has gotten the impression that being a vampire is fucking _hard._

He's hungry, all the time: he can go through twelve bottle of True Blood and still feel that insatiable _hunger,_ like a tiger being force-fed alfalfa, and even though there are walking, talking feed bags that smell so fucking good, he still can't eat. He breathes, he sleeps, and he hungers; for more than any human can possible give him, and it's all right there but he just can't _take._ There are so many rules and regulations: don't drink anyone in public, no killing a human, no matter how annoying and sweet Jesus, they _are;_ no glamoring, maiming, or feeding on random strangers, and frankly Steve has had enough.

Bad enough his entire church following had abandoned him, bad enough his she-devil of an ex-wife had slept with the object of his lust and had the nerve to blame it on him, like it was Steve's fault that he tried his damnedest to stay away from the fetid cesspool that was her vagina, but worst of all was that now that Steve was free, _truly_ free; from societal norms and inhibitions and stupid tacky things like _moral guidelines_ , fate just had to be a petty bitch.

He could finally be a promiscuous gay, and _nobody wanted to sleep with him._

Not Jason Stackhouse, a living dick with two legs, (who was much much younger than Steve anyway, and what the hell were they going to talk about after sex anyway, that kid was as bright as a blackout), and certainly not any of the gays in the local hotspots, although in hindsight maybe it wasn't such a bright idea to walk in and announce his presence with a loud and rowdy, “Hey, faggots!”, but fuck, he'd been excited and it just slipped out. Hardly anyone wanted anything to do with him now, and he'd barely gotten a job with the Authority by the skin of his teeth, especially with that Chancellor Roman. That first meeting had more friction than the back of a matchbook, and while the close contact was nice, (he was handsome, in a you-say-one-more-word-and-I-will-kill-your-face kind of way) it was still very off putting, and he'd just nodded until he could briskly walk away.

The problem with vampires, he thought to himself as he entered his new room, was that they all had hair triggers. They were like giant pit bulls with bad tempers, but soon as you hit that sweet spot, they were as docile as a lamb. All it would take was to learn their weak points, and Steve would be all right. All he had to do was focus, pay attention, and follow orders, and he'd be set for eternity.

Of course, then everything got all fucked up.

His boss was dead, his coworkers were sociopaths, and there was a new head vampire: a new head vampire that quite simply didn't take your shit goddamn it, quite possibly the oldest and strongest vampire in at the very least the nation, if not the world. He'd seen the man rip the spine of a man on live television and hold it up the camera like confetti, and if the whispers were true, he survived meeting the sun, being buried underground wrapped in silver, and recovered to full health in only a year. Here was a man who could tear Steve in half like wrapping paper and murder anybody who got in his way, friend or foe. There was no doubt in his mind that Russell Edgington was a dangerous, murderous fucking lunatic.

Steve had a little bit of a crush on him.

Okay, so he was older. Okay, so he had a little bit of a temper; so did Steve, and it's not like it wasn't expected, pretty much everyone who went after Russell first, so technically it was all self-defense, and he was just so worldly and strong and masculine and lord the way his eyes _smouldered_ -

And there went his fangs again.

He glanced around quickly and re-sheathed them. Everyone was listening to Golden Boy Compton, so no one had noticed. Still, _shit._ What was he, fourteen? He was not going to swoon over some older man like some sort of desperate stripper with daddy issues, he was a grown man, and he was going to pay attention to the meeting and be useful for once, goddamn it, he was not going to get distracted-

A rough hand massages his knuckles, and the owner grins mischievously. A sudden flashback to the night before, and Steve realizes that these are the same hands that spanked his bottom, and _goddamn it there go his fucking fangs again._

“Hungry?” asks Russell, as if it wasn't obvious. “It's hard to pay attention when that blood-lust overwhelms you, hmm? And you're barely six months old at that, poor thing.” He sighs in sympathy. “I don't know why they insist on us attending every meeting when Compton is more than happy to take charge.”

“I'm paying attention,” Steve insists, and sort of waves a hand over some half-assed notes and a doodle of him sitting on top of a pile of corpses with a big flashy crown of his head, with the words “King Sexy” embellished in block letters. He covers it as best as he can.

“These meetings get real boring, real fast. In fact, why don't you come with me somewhere after this? Dinner's on me,” Russell flashes those big scary teeth again, and Steve has never felt such an odd combination of fear and lust, and it makes him feel braver than usual.

“If you don't stop feeling me up during meetings,” says Steve, putting his best Look-Look-At-How-Sexy-I-Am face that he's practiced a thousand times for in the mirror, “There's gonna be something on you all right; and it ain't gonna be dinner.”

Russell raises an eyebrow, and looks mildly amused. “It isn't nice to tease an old dog like me, Newlin.”

Steve smirks. “It's only teasing if I don't intend to back it up.'

“Oh, you're gonna back it up all right; right on my-”

“All right, enough!” Salome suddenly stands, exasperation written on her face, and the meeting is brought to a screeching halt. “If you are both just going to sit there and shamelessly flirt-”

“Horribly, I might add-”

“Enough, Mr. Northman.” She takes a deep breath, and Steve feels like he's back in grade school again. “Is it at all possible for the two of you pay the _tiniest_ bit of attention to the matter at hand?”

“No,” Russell answers honestly. He stands gracefully from the table, and eyes Steve. “Now if you all excuse me, I have some...business...to take care of. Mr. Newlin, would you so graciously accommodate me to my chamber?”

“Kay.”

“Splendid.” says Russell, and when he takes Steve by the hand, he's inclined to agree.

 

\-------------------

 

In less than ten minutes, Steve is in Russell's room and while Steve's suite is nothing to laugh at, it's not even close to as nice. There's champagne glasses and aged blood in polished bottles (almost as old as himself, Russell boasts) , and it all seems so high-class that Steve can't help but feel out of place.

 

They talk about everything and nothing all at once. Politics, celebrities, history, countries, people they've met, people they've killed, people they've lost, and the conversation steadily goes toward romances.

“Were you ever married?” He asks Russell, who pauses for a few moments.

“Once,” he replies, and is quiet for what feels like a long time. “It ended not too long ago.”

“What happened?”

Russell looks very interested in the blood poured in his glass. “Well, time makes fools of us all. I had killed a monarch some centuries ago and thought nothing of it, and it came back to bite me in the ass. Coincidentally, that's how my husband met the true death as well.”

His face must be flushed with embarrassment. “I'm sorry for your loss. How long were you married?”

“Oh,six, seven hundred years. Give or take a decade; I can never remember dates.” It's a lie, but Steve allows it. “And yourself?”

“I was married once for eight years, but it pretty much felt like seven hundred.” Steve pauses. “She was a real cunt.”

Russell chuckles. “Par for the course, I'm afraid.”

He plops himself down on the bed next to Russell, and looks at him, really _looks_ at him. He's older, but in that rugged George Clooney kind of way; distinguished and handsome. Steve knows he's cute; the kind of face that make women go, 'awww' and he's about as threatening as a teddy bear, and he knows he'll never be handsome and strong, not like Russell is. Russell is staring at him too, and he can feel his face flush. He wonders if Russell is thinking the same.

“So is this the part where we have sex?” Steve blurts out, “Or we can get naked and just spoon; I mean whatever you're into, I'm pretty flexible-”

Russell laughs and laughs, and Steve knows there's definitely a bright red glow to his cheeks. “Now, now, Steve. There's no rush.” He refills the glass, and Steve drinks it just so he has something to occupy his stupid fucking mouth. “It's getting early in the day any damn way. You should be heading back soon.”

It's a polite dismissal, but a dismissal all the same, and he wonders when he'll learn to just _shut_. _up._ Humiliated, he sets the glass down, but before he can leave, Russell grabs his arm and he's being forcefully kissed against the wall.

Steve is just a bit taller than Russell, but his knees feel like jello and he's already sinking, and it's nothing like kissing his ex-wife. It's not even in the same league: he can feel the sharpness of his fangs press against his lips, and the hand that isn't resting pushing his shoulder against the door is resting comfortably on his ass (Oh, Edgington is definitely an ass man). It's heady and passionate and  _fang_ - _fucking-tastic_ and then it's over much too soon. They pull away, and Steve can see a bit of blood from where Russell had bit his bottom lip, and he can't stop the high-pitched moan that escapes his throat.

“If I told you,” Russell whispers, still staring at Steve's lips, “That I knew the vampire who consorted with Mr. Baker, and I could give you his current whereabouts, would that earn me any sort of brownie points in your favor?”

At the sound of the name of the vampire who had killed his entire family, Steve is all business. “I would be indebted to you, Mr. Edgington.”

“Call me Russell, dear,” Russell insists, and tells Steve to be on the lookout for a letter addressed to him within the week.

\-----------------------------

 

Sure enough, Russell's contacts come into reach with him, and a name is mailed to him within days. On heavy ivory paper, a single word is written, with an address: the name is _Warlow._ Steve is so excited he doesn't notice when Northman comes behind him and snatches it away.

He reads it quickly. “Where did you find this-”

“Back off, it's personal,” Steve snaps, but it's a futile endeavor, because they both know he's no match for the older vampire. Steve has seen skinny gawky kids on the church playground with a better chance against their bullies than the kind Steve has to put up with. It's starting to get on his nerves.

Northman folds the letter and puts it in his pocket. “I'm keeping this.”

“The hell you are!” Steve reaches for his pocket, and Northman twists his arm away.

“Okay, Okay, _Ow_ -”

“Fuck off,” says Northman, already walking away. “I don't have time for you.”

Some part of Steve that has never learned to shut up is indignant, and he throws a glass that was on the table at the back of Northman's head. It connects, and Northman freezes, and turns.

“Oh, you can't be fucking serious.”

Steve _is_. “Look, that letter was addressed to me, _asshole;_ so I would appreciate it if you-” but then Northman gets in his face and Steve's desire to live takes over his desire to talk.

“Oh, my God,” says Northman, looking about as shocked as Steve thinks he could ever look. “I will fucking _kill you._ Does that mean _anything_ to you? If you get in my way, I will fucking _kill_ you. Easily. Without remorse. In fact, I have to actively _try_ not to straight up murder your _stupid fucking face_ for even _looking_ at me. Do you have any _idea-_ ”

“Two weeks,” interrupts Steve, making his eyes as big as he can muster. “If I don't have him killed within two weeks, you can kill him. And me, if it makes you feel better. Pinky promise?”

Northman just stares, and Steve drops his hand. “Okay, regular promise then.”

The blonde man takes a deep breath, and exhales. “Two weeks. You have two weeks to kill this man, and if you don't, I will come into your home and the home of anyone you have ever loved, and I will  _wreck. Your fucking. Shit._ Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” and he leaves before tall, pale, and homicidal changes his mind.

His next stop should be a weapons store; Steve is pretty, not stupid, whoever this vampire was who had helped kill his family was older, stronger and meaner, and Steve has no chance in a fair fight, which he had no intention of giving the fucker anyway. Instead, he finds himself at Russell's door, and ignores the feeling of his heart sinking in his stomach.

Inside, Russell is feeding, and there are bodies all over the bed, but they're all dead now so Steve guesses it's okay. He sees Steve and smiles with great big fangs, and blood seeps all over his chin, pouring all over the bedspread.

“You are so _cute_ when you're gorging.” Steve says fondly, ignoring the cries for help. _Babies._

“Well hey there, sugar-bear,” Russell smirks and drops the body with a sickening _plop_. “And what do I owe to the pleasure of your company?”

“There's no easy way to say this,” says Steve as he crosses the room, stepping over the bodies and kicking the one that grabbed and stained his pant leg in the head, “But I'm afraid I'm leaving you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I beg pardon?”

Steve tells him all about his family, his desire for vengeance, and when he finishes and looks up Russell is still nonchalantly feeding, and Steve's nerves are getting testy.

“You are unbelievable- did you even hear a single word I said?”

“Please, help me” the women is moaning, and Jesus, how is she still alive, there had to have been at least six pints of blood on those bedsheets, _Christ_.

“Yes, yes; you have to avenge the death of your family and fight for their everlasting peace, yadda yadda-”

“Russell-”

“Somebody help, _please_ -”

“ _Steve._ ” He drops the body in exasperation, rolling his eyes. “Look, do you have any idea how many times I have had to hear this whole spiel about _revenge_ and _duty_ and ' _My whole family is dead oh noooo_ -' Let me tell you, it gets pretty damn petty after a while. Listen-”

“No, _you_ listen-”

“Help me, oh God, please-”

“Oh, will you _shut up!_ ” and Steve snaps her neck like a twig, and twists his fury onto his boyfriend, who looks annoyingly amused.

Steve takes a deep breath, and stares into Russell's eyes, and his amusement fades into something serious. Suddenly the mood is tense, and Steve is almost desperate.

“I'm telling you this because I'm leaving, and I don't know if I'm coming back, and-” He hesitates, and leans into Russell. He's a good six inches taller, but in that moment he feels incredibly small. He places a soft kiss on Russell's lips, and tries to burn the memory in the back of his mind. “And I wanted you to know that I really, _really_ like you, and that if I do go, if I do di-”

“Alright, alright; fine.” Russell interrupts, and starts taking his clothes off, which was always nice but not necessarily where Steve wanted the conversation to go. “If it's _so fucking important_ that it simply _cannot wait_ , then fine, let's go. Don't look at me with your mouth gaping open unless you want something to fill it, sweetheart, go get your _shit_ , and lets go.”

“Let's- you mean you're coming?”Steve imagined saying goodbye, maybe getting a kiss or a pity fuck, but not actual, useful _help._ It's a bit unnerving.

“Seeing as how I seem to attract the most high-maintenance men in this or any other universe, then yes, I suppose I am.” He kicks the corpse laying strewn across the floor. “Damn. I didn't even get to finish dinner.”

“We'll grab something on the way. Promise.”

\----------------

Steve fucks up.

It's a trap: of _course_ it's a fucking trap, because God forbid anything is easy for Steve, oh no, and not two seconds after he sets foot in the room, they've got him held down by two vamps, two standing guard and one holding a wooden stake at his throat.

Steve gulps. “Would you believe I was looking for an earring I dropped?”

The stake presses harder into his throat. “Okay, a contact lens?”

“Did anybody follow you here? Huh? Answer me!”and he can feel his skin sizzle.

“No,” He lies, and prays Russell has enough common sense to leave and get help or intervene, but then he remembers who he's dealing with here and just gives up halfway through.

“You looking for Warlow?” says a man who looks like shit and smells even worse. His voice is gruff but amused, and Steve doesn't even want to think about whatever it is trapped in his beard. “Warlow's long gone, baby. Told us you were coming; but thanks for stopping by.” He lifts his hand to strike and says something interesting, “Don't worry. Stackhouse will join you soon enough.”

Steve closes his eyes and waits for death.

It comes, and with a terrible scream and with the sound of skin stretching and snapping into bloody pulps with a sickening _plop_ , one by one. When Steve opens his eyes, he sees the remains of four vampires, and Russell, who looks vaguely bored, as he crushes the skull of the last one with only his fist. The threat to Steve's life has been eradicated in less than a minute, and Russell is not even winded.

He pulls something from the pocket of the dead man. “Friends of the South, come down to the opening of 'Nosfe-rock-tu'- seriously? These clubs names gets worse and worse as time goes on.” He sighs, licking the blood from his fingers. “Well, at least we know where to head to next.” He stares at the carnage, amused. “We thank you for your information, _baby_.”

Steve's fangs go _snick_ , and his dick is hard. He doesn't hide it. He doesn't even try to. He starts removing clothing in a rush, scrambling to unzip and kick off his pants, not even bothering to be sexy because he can't move his gaze from the skull Russell still has wrapped around his fist.

“Did I miss something, sweetheart? Anything...important?”

“Nothing much,” Steve says airily, down to his tightie-whities, “But I _am_ gonna be sucking your dick.”

To his credit, Russell hesitates for only a second. “Well, if you insist.”

He nods, and then Steve is swallowing him down.

It's odd, Steve thinks, having another man's member down your throat. He had to actively try not to think ' _something long and thick is pressing down your throat don't gag don't throw up Oh God you're gonna hurl all over him don't'._ Russell's hands are clenched in his hair, (okay, _ow)_ hips jerking up against the firm pressure of his hands.

Less than a minute in and already something is leaking, and Steve recognizes it as blood, but not the kind he's used to; this blood tastes saltier, is creamier, and it's probably the same consistency as snot, and he gags a little but turns it into a flirty little moan and hopes Russell didn't notice, and he looks up to check.

The older man has his eyes closed, and he's snapping his hips, and every now and then Steve can hear a quiet little moan escape. He pulls off slowly, and they make eye contact. A single strand of saliva between his lips and the head of Russell's cock breaks away, and Russell looks _wrecked._ Suddenly, like some sort of sexy epiphany, it occurs to him that he's got Russell quite literally by the balls. For once in his life, Steve has all the power right now, and it goes right to both of his heads.

“You like that, huh?” He murmurs, and gives him a long, slow, very wet pass of his tongue from sac to head, suckling on the tip. “You like it when baby sucks you dry?”

Russell is trembling now, letting out a low, nervous laugh and it's a sight to see. “Jesus  _fucking_ Christ-”

“Come on,” and watches Russell's eyes on him, working his shaft as a tiny drop of blood falls onto his tongue. Russel's hips are moving faster, and his hands are pulling on his hair so hard it's starting to feel _really_ good.

“Come on, _daddy_ ,” Steve whispers, and Russel roars, and with three great spurts covers Steve's face with ejaculate. It's on his eyes and his cheeks and his lips, and Steve makes a show of licking it off.

Russell is still catching his breath, and boy is that an ego-trip. “You keep sucking like that and I might keep you around, kiddo. Was that your first time?”

Steve, who was wiping off the blood with a clean part of some corpses shirt, freezes. “Was it bad?”

Russell takes over, and gently wipes off the remaining residue. “Not at all. A little more teeth than my liking, but those things you learn. Turn your head now- that's it.”

\--------------------------------

Weeks go by, and everything is  _perfect_ .

He's gone from fetching meals to taking minutes, his peers grudgingly respect him, and he's had glorious, heart pounding, toe-curling sex. Sometimes he even feeds off on someone while Russell takes him from behind, and it's so fucking  _good_ that half the time he just blacks out and lays in Russell's bed and doesn't get up until the following night, usually just so they can have more back-breaking sex. At least he knows why most gay men were so built; gay sex is  _exhausting_ .

They go out on dates too; horribly corny affairs like dinner and a show, and sometimes dinner  _is_ the show, and Steve guesses there had to be  _some_ perks to dating a creative sociopath.

Everything is perfect in Steve's life, when all of a sudden it's not.

They're riding back to the manor in comfortable silence and arrive to a burning building. Steve stumbles out, all headiness from sex washed away. There's piles and piles of stringy goop all over the grounds: security; Steve thinks morbidly. Interestingly enough, there's also piles and piles of wolf carcasses left rotting outside as well.

Steve turns to Russell, furious. “What. Did you. _Do._ ”

Russell for his part, looks mildly chagrined. “Don't look at me like that. I didn't do a damn thing-” and ducks, because a vamp goes flying for his head not three seconds later. He easily kills him, and kicks the corpse with a childish fit of contempt.

“I leave for half an hour and the entire place goes to hell,” Russell sighs deeply, taking in the damage. “This is Rome all over again.”

They head inside and find it's even worse. Wolves are attacking vamps that are attacking other vamps that are attacking wolves, and it's almost surreal. Salome, of course, is no where to be seen, and neither is Bill and doesn't that just fucking _figure_. In the corner, that creepy pedophile vamp who keeps asking Steve if he ever touched kids while he was in the priesthood is cowering under the stairway.

“What the hell _happened_?” Steve asks, eyes roaming wildly at the carnage. “Seriously, the _hell_ -”

“Short version? Everything went to hell. Long version? Salome and Bill fucked up, and now everything is going to hell.” He looks half-mad. “Hey, Father; get me out of here, and I'll split half a kindergarten class with you-” And Steve crushes his windpipe with one hand and sends the freak to hell himself. He's about to call Russell's attention, when it becomes clear that something else already has:

 _Northman_ . They're  _fucked._

Northman is no match for Russell on his own, not even close; but with him, that red-headed bitch, the blonde bitch Stackhouse, some other blonde bitch with bigger tits,some crazy looking black chick, a rogue werewolf, and what appears to be (And Steve rubs his eyes because what.) two lions that look _pissed,_ Russell is outnumbered. Before Steve can even think of what to do, he's already been mauled, covered with silver chains, and shot with some freaky light from Stackhouse's body: (And seriously, was there some sort of meteor that crashed in Bon Temps, because this many weird fucking people in one town was just too crazy.)

It just figured. Steve had finally found someone smart and powerful and _interested_ and now they're gonna die. It's really all so unfair, and without thinking,Steve does something incredibly stupid and steps in front of Russell's body. It's only Northman's reflexes that stop him from ending them both.

“Look, I know, I know you two have some sort of bad blood, pardon the pun-”

“Not even close,” Northman growls, “Get him out of the way, _Russell_. How many men have to die so I can just fucking _stake you already-_ ”

“I suppose it depends,” deadpans Russell, nearly dead but looking more annoyed than anything else, “How many you're willing to sleep with. _Whore._ ”

This is going nowhere fast. “Look, we'll leave,” Steve offers, and he can see Russell about to protest, so he starts talking fast.

“We'll go, someplace far, where you'll never see us again, and he'll never bother you again; I swear it on my life, on his life, just please; _please_ let us go. I just want to leave.”, and the 'with him' hangs in the air between them. “I just want to leave.” He repeats softly, and there is silence for what feels like forever, and then his heart drops when Northman raises the stake.

“I know where Warlow is!” and Steve closes his eyes because _goddamn it,_ he was _saving_ that one.

Northman drops the arm with the stake. “I'm sorry?”

Gap toothed skank freezes, and pulls Northman down to whisper something in his ear. Steve can't really hear it, seeing how all his attention is spent on trying to pull the silver off his new boyfriend without melting his hands off. It's not going so good.

Northman is staring at her, outraged, but Ms. Stackhouse doesn't seem to notice.

“Warlow,” says Ms. Stackhouse, eyes narrowed. “Where is he?”

Steve is in no mood for her bullshit. “Let us go free and I'll tell you.”

“Let us go free and I'll kill you _myself_ , you contemptible little _cunt_ -”

“Hush, you.” Steve places a hand over Russell's mouth, and the look on his face is almost worth the painfulness of his assured death.

She frowns, hands on her hips. “Tell us where he is, first.”

This bitch is even more infuriating than he remembers. “Birmingham, Alabama; his coffin is underneath some club called 'Nosfe-rock-tu'.”

The look the two give him is nothing short of incredulous.

“Oh please, Northman; like 'Fangtasia' is _so_ much more refined- and don't look at _me like that_ ; I didn't name the damn thing. Here,” and shakily offers the damning evidence, and his last hope at revenge. “They're probably expecting us, so you have the element of surprise. Just take it and go; we're leaving now too, okay?”

For a moment Northman is clutching the wooden plank like a lifeline, and Steve can tell he's just _dying_ to do it, but then that blonde bitch tugs at his hand, and miraculously Northman drops it. Maybe the bitch isn't so bad after all.

“If I ever see either one of you two here ever again,” and she's glaring daggers now, “I will fire first and ask questions later, you hear? _Get out of my sight_.”

Or maybe they're a match in psycho heaven. Either way Steve's not staying to find out, and with the last of his strength he hauls Russell up and runs as fast and as long as he can in the opposite direction.

\-----------------------

 

Soon he's walking, because Steve is tired and he just can't run anymore. Russell is dead weight on his shoulders, but he won't let go. He's got no energy to walk, but he always has enough to be an asshole. He's clawing and struggling, but his skin is still blistered from the sun, and what would surely maim him feels like love taps. He curses and spits and howls, and then Russell fucking _bites him._

“ _Ow_ \- you _dick_ , did you just fucking _bite_ me?”

“-You _wretched_ , _cowardly_ , _fuck,_ ” Russell sounds enraged. “You will unhand me this minute, or I will rip the flesh off your chubby _fucking_ face and skull fuck your eye socket _until you can see how big of a dick I am_ -”

Steve thinks it's kind of cute that his murderous tendencies don't even begin to fade when he's already half-dead. But still, enough is enough, and he drops him unceremoniously on the ground.

“Well, that's gratefulness for you, I suppose. I just saved our lives, and all you can think about is necrophilia. How typical.”

“You have _condemned_ me to cowardice-”

“I _saved_ your stupid life, and mine; and in the process distracted the man who literally _became immortal_ just so he could _kill you_.” From the ground Russell is attempting to stand, but even he can't heal that quickly, and it's kind of like watching a pit bull walk on one leg, only sadder.

“Look at you,” Steve murmurs, wiping away the dirt and placing a chaste kiss on a particularly evil looking blister, “You are nearly torn to pieces and all you can think about is your stupid pride. _Men_.”

Russell shakes him off and glares at Steve, and if he had any doubts, he probably would have been forced to look away. “For the rest of my life- the rest of eternity, I remind you: I am going to have to live with the knowledge that I could have fought to my last breath, a warrior's death, and instead I ran, like a coward-” 

Steve just stares, waiting for the tantrum to be over. “You don't listen to Kenny Rogers much, do you?”

Russell wails, not even bothering to  _pretend_ to listen anymore. “Oh  _fuck me_ , they're gonna be telling the story about how a chubby little twink wearing a terrible sweater dragged Russell  _fucking_ Edgington off into the sunset for the rest of eternity.”

Steve tugged at the material. “This sweater's not  _terrible-”_

Russell sighs deeply. “I'm ruined.”

“You're not ruined,” Steve chastises, already digging the ditch to hide their bodies from the sunrise. “You're wounded, you're angry, your pride and your body is bruised a little, but you're alive, so to speak, and okay; and if you're okay then I'm okay, and we can be okay together, okay?”

“I've had enough of your _Kum-ba-ya_ bullshit for one evening, thank you-”

Thank God for super speed, because now at least the ditch is done. There wasn't really anything to feed on now; but they'd be okay until nightfall. _Ravenous_ , but okay.

“Just think,” says Steve, as he carefully places Russell in the ground, mindful of the still healing flesh, “By the end of tomorrow, we'll have booked a flight to Hong Kong, and you can get massaged by all the Asian men you like while I suck you off _bone dry_ , or we can- can you move over a little bit, I've gotta get to the dirt, mmmm, thank you- or we can head to Bermuda, feast on coconut daiquiris and cocoa men- I see you smiling, don't even try to hide it, Mr. Sourpuss-”

He chuckles. “If you knew what you were getting into, kid, you'd run in the opposite direction.”

Steve can feel his dick getting harder, and he groans. “Sweetie, I'm too tired for double entendres-”

“I'm being serious,” he says sternly, and the mood shifts into something dark. “This is it for me. You can't just _leave_ , not anymore. We're stuck together, you and me. For the rest of your life, you have to promise me you'll be careful, because _you can't die_. If you die, _I_ die.”

“That's a terrible burden for you to put on me.”

“I'm not apologizing, if that's what you're after. I'm a selfish fucking prick, and I will go batshit _insane_ if anything were to happen to you.” Russell's eyes are closed, and his face is tense. “There are some things a man can't live through twice. Do you understand?”

“If you ever leave me, sugar, if you ever die before me, I will ruin this world and the next until I find you and _kill you myself_ , do you understand?”

He holds a soft hand to his cheek, and kisses each finger. If Steve wasn't so tired, he'd be touched.

Cheek to cheek, two badly broken men sat atop the stained soil of a empty forest, strangers and lovers in the dusk. Steve has never been first to anyone, not even himself, because what he wanted came first, always, above everything else: power. But this was another kind, he thought in the darkness, as he embraced this man much stronger and much weaker than he. To be strong enough to overcome pride and pettiness and vanity was something much more powerful than he could ever hope to be.

“I understand,” Steve promised, and sealed it with a kiss, because he did.


End file.
